


i used to be on fire

by rowofstars



Category: The Punisher (TV 2017)
Genre: Angst, Angst and Feels, Couch Sex, F/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, Post-Season/Series 01, Smut, Spoilers, Swearing, The Defenders (Marvel TV) Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-25
Updated: 2017-11-25
Packaged: 2019-02-06 00:22:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,924
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12805557
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rowofstars/pseuds/rowofstars
Summary: Karen puts the flowers in her window so she can check on Frank. Things happen.





	i used to be on fire

**Author's Note:**

> Apparently I write Kastle fic now. I have been writing these two in some weird fugue state or something. I have so many feelings right now. Set post-S1.

Karen puts wilted flowers in the window and warm beer in the fridge. 

It will be at least an hour before he shows up, _if_ he shows up, so she changes out of her suit and skirt and takes a hot shower. She washes her hair, swearing she can still smell the acrid scent of smoke and burned flesh even weeks later. On the edge of the drain, the water pulls at a smear of dried blood, melting it loose and swirling pink before it disappears.

She thinks about Matt, about Foggy, about Frank. She thinks about before New York too. When she came here she was young and new, with convictions she thought were worth standing for. At some point she came to stand for certain people, to be the one who kept the pieces together, who tried to take care and tell their truth. That kind of responsibility, she thinks, hurts. It hurts in a way that she never thought it would. She feels like she’s going backwards, back into these memories that don’t belong to her anymore, to this person she hasn’t been for months and maybe never was.

A sob slips out and she presses a hand over her mouth. Her knees wobble, and she sinks down, letting the hot water beat on her back until her skin is glowing red. Eventually the water cools, and she wipes her eyes, twisting to turn it off. The faucet squeaks in her palm and she winces at the shrill sound. It takes a few minutes before she can pull herself out of the tub and into a fluffy towel, and when she turns around there’s a shadow falling across the door.

Karen gasps, and a second later, Frank steps into view.

“ _Shit_ ,” he mutters, his eyes flicking up and down, assessing her near nakedness. He turns quickly with his hands raised to his head. “Sorry!”

She shakes her head and shoves at the door to close it.

A few minutes later, she joins Frank in the kitchen wearing a long t-shirt and leggings. He’s in his customary hoodie and jeans, and there’s a beer on the counter.

“You scared me,” she says, pointedly.

“Yeah, sorry about that.” He pops the cap off, and she listens to it clatter against the counter as he comes around, offering her the bottle. “I’m lucky you don’t shower with your gun.”

Karen rolls her eyes and takes the beer. “How do you know I don’t?”

He laughs quietly and watches as she takes the first sip, and then another, standing in the middle of the small apartment. She’s trying to figure out what exactly she should tell him. That she can’t stop thinking about Louis? About the sound of the bomb ripping apart a stainless steel door? About the strange quiet of the elevator? All of it? 

Everything about her life keeps trying to unravel in front of her.

“You gonna share?” he asks. His mouth turns, not quite like a smile.

She passes it to him, and then moves to her couch, dropping back on it with a hard flop that makes the springs groan. He follows a moment later, after a long pull from the bottle

“You’re also lucky I have better taste in beer than you,” she says. 

He presses a hand to his chest and leans back, letting his legs stretch out. “Ma’am, I am offended.”

“It’s _true_ ,” she grins, reaching for the bottle again.

“I saw the flowers,” he says after a long moment. “Did you need something?”

Karen shrugs. “I just wanted to make sure you were okay. After -” She waves a hand and then sets the beer aside, knowing he knows what she means. "You could have called, could have said _something_ to me, you know."

"I know," he says, his head dropping as he leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "But I had to make sure things were taken care of, Karen. I couldn't risk it."

She sighs and shakes her head. "Yeah, I get it. You had _business._ "

He straightens and frowns at her. "No, no, not like that."

"Then _what_ , Frank?" she snaps. "What is always so important, so secret, that you can't even tell me you're alive?" He blinks and looks away, and she reaches for the beer and takes two large swallows of it, wishing she'd bought wine or whiskey instead.

Beside her, Frank coughs and rubs a hand over his face. She can hear the sound of his stubble rubbing on his rough palm.

"I feel like I'm always having to say to goodbye to you." Her nail picks at the label on the bottle, curling one corner. "Just in case." She sets the bottle down hard and waits for him to say something.

After a long moment, Frank exhales and leans back, sagging against the sofa cushions. It's strange to see him relax, even for a second, even when there's no one chasing or shooting at him. He looks almost defeated, and that scares her a little.

"I couldn't risk it," he says, glancing at her face briefly and rubbing at a tear in his jeans. "I couldn't risk you."

Karen swallows and closes her eyes, opening them a moment later to see him looking at her. He reaches out and tucks some of her hair behind her ear. It’s still cold and damp from her shower, and a slow drip runs the side of her neck. She eyes him quietly as his fingers curl against her jaw, knuckles rubbing lightly against her skin.

“Are you okay?” she asks, turning to face him and tucking her feet underneath her.

He snorts and there’s a brief, crooked smile. She bites at her lip as he draws his hand back, missing his touch. She hates that she doesn't know what to do with this feeling, the ache after he’s gone and there’s nothing but the thought of him touching her. She doesn’t know what to make of it. Or maybe she does.

“I’m fine.” 

They both know it’s a lie.

She bites her lip and reaches forward, her fingers brushing over his hand as he watches her. Her eyes meet his and she sighs. “I _mean_ it, Frank.”

Frank doesn’t move, just lets his eyes drift down to her fingers over his. They both know it’s there, the lie and the truth. She pulls her hand away, her fingers hovering before she tucks it under her thigh, and he sighs. There’s an ache in her chest and a lump in her throat, the kind she gets when things are about to change.

“I know,” he starts, but his voice catches and the rest of it dies on his throat. He swallows and says it again - _I know_ \- so soft it’s almost a whisper.

Karen shifts closer and lays her head against his shoulder, the one that wasn’t bloodied the last time she saw him. She feels him move against her, and then his hand comes up to her face again, his fingers sliding in her hair. He smoothes his thumb against the apple of her cheek, and she sighs.

"I don’t need you to worry about me, Karen.”

She scoffs and shakes her head, making him pull his hand away. “Well one of us has to.” 

His forehead presses against hers, and his hand is back, rough fingertips on her soft cheek. "I just want to protect you.” His voice is gruff and heady, his breath smells like her beer. “And I’m _fine_.”

Karen licks her lips and raises her hand to his face, touching one of the lingering scars on his chin. “I’m not.”

Her fingers brush his mouth, and his move down to her neck, curving around under her hair. It’s crazy and stupid. She wants to hit him and kiss him at the same time, so much so that her other hand clenches in her lap.

Eventually, she settles for the latter.

She slides her tongue inside of his mouth, rolling it underneath his, and moans when his hands find her hips, bunching up her shirt. It's all a little vague from there, and she can’t really blame the beer. They are finding their footing again, finding something to chase away the loneliness, but there are memories, living and dead between them. They never know when or how to talk, not that Frank Castle is ever likely to be one for talking. But they have instinct and feeling and need. 

 

 

* * *

 

He’s between her legs on the couch, his mouth resting over her belly, and her shirt is bunched up to her breasts. 

"I'm sorry," he says into her skin. “I’m sorry.”

Karen shakes her head. She knows what he means. Sorry he left without a word. Sorry he wasn’t there when all the shit when down with Matt. Sorry he is who he is. 

Her hand pulls at the short hair on the back of his head to make him look up. She licks her lips and blinks back the wetness in her eyes. "Don’t."

Then his teeth scrape her stomach, down to her navel and the waistband of her leggings. Her skin starts to heat and she pretends to forget all of it. Legs, hands, mouths - it all moves according to memory. She likes when he bites at her throat, and he likes how she gasps in the slow moment he slides inside of her.

They are belly to belly, slick and moaning. A flush crawls up her neck as he moves, pulling a cry from her throat. He kisses her, his mouth hot as it devours her own, and she feels the desperation. Him or her, it really doesn't matter, and she moans softly, her fingers pulling at his shirt, seeking bare skin as she pushes her tongue against his. She comes to the maddening rhythm of his slow, deep strokes, her thighs tightening around his hips to keep him close.

When her breathing slows, he sits up on his knees and pulls her into his lap. A low groan slips from his mouth as her legs wrap around his sides. She starts rocking against him, moving faster, pressing into him and seeking more friction, chasing more pleasure.

She forgets it all this time, the guilt, the grief, the responsibility, everything but the sensation of being _with_ someone again, of not being lonely for a night. His fingers slide down, thumb rolling slowly over where they are joined. The rhythm falters, and he draws back, his eyes dark and steady as he watches her. It’s just like in the elevator, all hot breath and pounding hearts between them. Her hips snap, his fingers twist, and they lose themselves in a thick, sharp gasp.

 

 

* * *

 

Karen wakes in the morning, alone, and curled under a blanket on her sofa. The beer bottle is in the recycling bin by the fridge, and her holster is on the coffee table. The gun sits next to it like he knew that she always slept with it on her nightstand.

Pushing to her feet, she looks around the small space, ears straining, or maybe hoping, for the sound of the shower. But she knows he’s already long gone. She moves to the kitchen and stops. There are fresh flowers on the table and she bends to breathe in the fresh scent. There’s a card in the middle of the blooms, and she plucks it from the little plastic stand, flipping it over.

 _Cleaned your gun - F_ , is all it says.

And she smiles.


End file.
